


Return My Serve

by Pinkninja



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sports, Alternate Universe - Tennis, First Meetings, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Meet-Cute, from 80 feet away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:34:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29712420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkninja/pseuds/Pinkninja
Summary: Joe has been thinking about the Champion tennis player from Italy ever since they went to five-sets at the French Open in 2017. Now it's the Australian Open, and the stats predict they're going to go head-to-head again in the semi-finals.Or:The Tennis AU I was gently bullied into writing
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 36
Kudos: 185





	Return My Serve

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclaimer: I'm only a tennis fan once a year during the Australian Open, and said as much on Discord, then Robyn said: Someone should write a Joe x Nicky as tennis stars fic. So this happened.
> 
> I make no claims about accuracy, either of tennis rules or strategy. I guess this is also an AU where someone outside Djokovic/Nadal/Federer actually has a chance at an Open title lol. 
> 
> Also this fic touches very briefly on Covid in a passing mention. And Joe talks about being Brown in a predominantly White sport.
> 
> Ahhh Robyn also made a mood board!  
> Reblog it here! [Tumblr Link](https://scarlet-welly-boots.tumblr.com/post/644183507783024640/return-my-serve-pinkninja-the-old-guard-movie)

  


The thing about tennis is that it's too personal.

Football, cricket, rugby, all the team sports have rosters that change piece by piece. But everything a tennis player has is built off their own name. Their name becomes their brand. Their rise and fall comes off of their own back.

The other individual sports, golf and gymnastics and the like, the fierce competition is hidden behind a layer of statistics and ranking and scoring. But tennis isn't like that.

The battles are head to head between players, everything televised and analysed and debated. Tennis players are exposed. Like a raw nerve. It's remarkably interpersonal for an individual sport. And it's all too easily changed.

* * *

_Monday, the 15th of February_

_2020 Australian Open_

_3 days before the semifinals._

“I've run the numbers,” Booker said, hunched over his laptop in the player gym.

Joe was doing his agility routine, under the careful eye of Nile, his physio.

“Yeah?” Joe asked, not pausing in his bouncing on his toes.

“You'll take Keane, he's off his game,” Booker said, “easy win, so long as you don't fuck it up.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Joe said, flicking his feet up in chassis left and right.

“Watch your toes,” Nile warned, a careful eye always alert.

Joe adjusted his stance, and Booker continued.

“After that, you're through to the semis, and if I'm right, you're versing Nicolò di Genova.”

Joe stopped his routine, despite Nile's protests, and looked at Booker.

“No way,” he breathed. “Nicky the Sniper?”

“His name is Nicolò.”

“And mine is Yusuf,” said Joe.

“And he's not a sniper.”

“But his placement, Book! It's perfect!”

Booker looked very unamused. “You've been obsessed with that man, ever since the marathon in the US Open.”

“He's an enigma,” Joe said, getting back to his training to feign nonchalance. “His game is complex, he gives nothing away.”

“You give too much away,” Booker returned.

Joe settled into his squats, eyes focused on his form in the mirror.

“I don’t like that look.” Nile said, wagging a finger. “You’re up to something.”

“I’m not up to anything,” Joe protested. He waved a hand so they dropped the topic then got onto the treadmill.

The screen in the corner of the player gym was running through tournament history, and a slow-mo close up shot of Di Genova preparing to serve filled the screen, clear eyes shining.

* * *

_5th of June, 2017._

_The French Open Quarter Finals_

The French Open was the fifth time they had versed each other in a grand slam. Fourth, if you count Wimbledon, but Joe doesn't, because he was playing on a torn Achilles tendon and basically had to throw the match.

Joe was playing well on the clay court, if he does say so himself, controlling the ball so he wasn't forced to run too much on the hard surface, throwing in top spin. But they were evenly matched.

It was 30-40.

Break point. Joe had to win the next point and take them to deuce and hold his serve, or he'll never hear the end of it from Booker.

Off of Joe's own serve, Nicolò engaged him in a rally that had forced him into the far left corner, then without warning, hit it wide the right. Joe ran for it, but even stretched out with his frankly impressive reach, Joe couldn't put his racquet to it.

He stopped on a dime and saluted the move by clapping a hand on the strings of his racquet.

“Game, Di Genova.” The chair announced. “Change over.”

Fuck.

It was a good move, but it broke Joe's serve and now he's one game down and Nicolò would be serving for the set.

Joe got his towel and mopped his face, walking towards the bench for a change over, when he realised Nicolò was standing upright and staring at him, not preparing to change sides for his serve to start.

Joe stopped what he was doing and looked at him quizzically.

“That was out,” Nicolò said. He called it out in French across the court, but still, from the first time he heard it live, Joe had the distinct impression that the other man's voice was soft and beautifully accented.

The crowd _was_ quiet and ready for Joe's serve, but after that there was the distinct chattering of confusion.

“What?” Joe asked.

Nicolò pointed with his racquet at the far right corner where his last hit had landed. “My hit was out, you should call it.”

The crowd at this point had caught onto what was happening and a steady drone of “ooooo”’s carried across the stadium.

The umpire looked at Joe, and he shrugged.

“Yeah, alright,” Joe said. “I challenge it.”

The umpire touched his mic. “Mr al-Kaysani is challenging the last call. The ball was called in.”

The crowd started a slow clap, getting faster and faster as the screens around the auditorium displayed the computer generated court, and the trajectory of the ball coming off Nicolò's racquet. The claps built to a frenzy as the computer's camera zooms in on the grey smudge on the ground where the ball landed.

It zoomed in, then zoomed in again.

There were mere pixels between the grey mark and the white line of the court. The crowd broke out into cheers at the sight, and the score on the board was changed as the umpire spoke.

“Deuce,” the chair spoke.

Joe took a moment, grin on his face, hands on his hips. Across the court, Nicolò met his eye and shrugs, with almost an imperceptible smile.

 _Ah,_ Joe thought. _Gotcha._

* * *

_Monday, the 15th of February_

_2020 Australian Open_

_3 days before the semifinals_

Andy could say a lot with her lips pursed shut. 5 time grand slam winner, Andromache Sycthia, was not easily swayed by pleas for mercy. She once defeated her childhood hero who returned to the court for the first time after a knee surgery, and in the post-match interview she was asked if it was difficult and emotional to defeat her idol, Andy leaned into the microphone and merely said “no, I broke her twice in the first set”. Andy lost the international audience's favour, but as she always said, she didn't need applause to win.

That was years ago, now she had another life as a coach.

Her lips were pursed as she watched Nicky train on the practice courts, away from prying eyes. He was drilling his returns, the ball machine spitting them out at a high velocity and he was aiming for alternating back corners. Every now and then he looked back to her, and she inclined her head to the right to mean he was doing well, to the left of there was something to tighten up. They spend hours this way, back and forth, making small improvements every day. At this level of tennis, the smallest changes ripple out into game changers.

Nicky kept his mind on his movements, darting back and forth across the court. After he spent some time moving forward to practice his net approaches, Andy checked her phone then called him over.

Nicky returned a ball back to the machine. It bounced perfectly off the red button and the machine whirred to a stop.

He made his way over to Andy on the side of the court and pulled off his headband as he went. Nicky didn't have a uniform, per say, didn't have a brand, but he was quite fond of wearing a headband to gather his sweat and keep his longish hair out of his eyes.

“Stats are in,” Andy said, reading off her phone. “My guy has you versing Yusuf al-Kaysani in the semi-finals. You took him in 5 sets in the 2017 French Open.”

Oh. Yusuf. Nicky remembered. 

* * *

_5th of June, 2017._

_The French Open Quarter Finals_

Nicky had thrown his chance at breaking Yusuf's serve in the third set by pointing out a lineman's error. The ball was out, Nicky felt it was when it came off the racquet. It was the right thing to do, to recommend Yusuf challenge the call, even if it was a critical moment of the match. al-Kaysani had won the game with a 200km per hour ace, then a forehand winner.

The intrigued grin he'd gotten from the Tunisian champion after the challenge stayed with him, and (Nicky would never admit it to Andy) shook him enough that he made too many unforced errors on his next serve and al-Kaysani got ahead, 30-40.

Break point.

Fuck.

Nicky took a minute to slow his racing mind, carefully selecting balls from the ballkid and making small readjustments to his foot placement. He swept hair behind his ears and mopped sweat from his brow. Toes touching the white baseline on the red court, he leant forward and slowly triple bounced the ball.

No, his weight was wrong. He kept fucking up.

Nicky took a step back, jogging on the spot a couple of times to reset, then moved back into position ready to serve, leaning forward and bouncing the ball again.

He wound up to serve, threw the ball into the air, but it came off his fingers wrong. He caught it again and the crowd murmured their displeasure at the delay to the next point.

Then, the umpire spoke and Nicky's gut sank. 

“Time violation, Nicolò di Genova.”

Shit. His mind quickly spiralled. All the worst thoughts about himself and his game rushing to the surface.

Then, a confident voice called out.

“Hey!” al-Kaysani called out. “Hey! It's just a game!”

Yusuf approached the raised chair of the Umpire. “Ref, Ref, it's just a game.”

It was the kind of rapid fire French you might find in the schoolyard, a student protesting against a teacher, not being shouted on live television broadcast for an international audience.

Nicky stood there, bewildered, as Yusuf… fought for his honour?

The Chair Umpire pushed away his microphone and leaned down to talk to him, but Nicky knew that the eager television networks would be zooming in on the drama.

“Ce n'est qu'un jeu!” Yusuf yelled, gesturing broadly, _it's only a game!_ “Look at the score.”

The Chair said something back to him, something along the lines of, “I understand.”

“Look at the score!” Yusuf repeated. “Do you want good tennis or not?”

How bizarre. Nicky arched an eyebrow. Yusuf was arguing with the Chair Umpire, risking a penalty himself, not because he thought the time violation was unearned, but because it… made for bad tennis?

Arguing with the Referee rarely succeeded in a change to the score, but always made the audience sit forward and make some noise. Eventually, Yusuf threw up his hands and conceded, and by the time he did, Nicky had regrouped and was distracted from his negative thought spiral, he was ready to serve for the break point.

_Ce n'est qu'un jeu._

It's only a game.

Those words rang in Nicolò's ears through the Duece and to hold his serve. His mind was so distracted from his negative spiral he was able to regain his footing in the score. They went to the fifth set that match, and after a grueling final set, Nicky eventually won against Yusuf and went through to lose in the semi-finals.

* * *

_Thursday the 7th of January, 2021_

_Australian Open, Melbourne_

_3 days before qualifiers_

After the mandatory Covid-19 hotel quarantine, Nicky was desperate to get back onto the courts without restrictions and with his team there. Finally shipped into Melbourne Tennis Park and got his gear all sorted and ready for fearsome competition.

What a number Covid had done on… everything. Tennis was not exempt.

Training was still restricted to the practice courts, and limited into shifts. Nicky volunteered to have the early day practice slots. The later day sessions being reserved for the higher ranked players. He's still a mid-range player, ranking in the high 20's worldwide. No longer a wild card, but not expected to make too much of a splash at the Grand Slams. Tournaments and championships that didn't have the prize money draw of the grand Slams were where he felt most comfortable.

He spotted a few other, similarly ranked players arriving at the courts too, bags and training teams tagging along. Andy had merely told Nicky, ‘you know what to practice’ that morning when he called her hotel room. The other players nodded to him, or waved a greeting. Most he recognised, many he had versed in ATP tournaments and Grand Slams in the past few years.

The player in the court next to him was practicing forehand volleys against a young black woman with her braids tied back with a bandana. He was facing away from Nicky, keeping light on his toes, arms swinging in good form in his blue, long sleeve Nike muscle shirt. The other man lifted a hand, calling off the woman's serve to wave her down for a break.

“Nile, take 15, I gotta work on my serve,” the man called out, and when he turned around, Nicky recognised him as al-Kaysani.

Yusuf was wearing a beard, filled in but not as thick as it was at the French Open years ago, and bright orange shorts. His sneakers had rainbow laces, and little pride flags stitched into the outer sides, Nicky noticed, as he mopped his face with a towel and wandered over to where Nicky stood.

Yusuf grinned at him. “She's strong,” he said, waving a hand at the woman grabbing a drink bottle and heading for the gates, “but my serves aren't easy to return.”

“I remember, Yusuf,” Nicky says.

The Tunisian champion stuck out his racquet. “Call me Joe. Nicolò, right?”

“Nicky,” he replied, tapping his own against it. It was strange, having casual interaction in relative close proximity. Nicky had been living on high alert since March 2020, but here people walk the streets arm in arm without even masks most of the time. Nicky frowned a little, and it was like Joe, God knows how, read his mind.

“Wild year, huh?” Joe said, crossing his frankly impressive arms over his more impressive chest. “Fucking Wimbolden had pandemic insurance and the governments didn't?”

Nicky laughed softly. “The payouts were helpful, though.”

The prize money had been split evenly across the competitors, rankings didn't matter. It was the most egalitarian way the pandemic was handled in any sphere. Joe's expression gets sombre. He's so easy to read.

“Italy got hit pretty hard,” he says. “You okay? Your family?”

“Si, grazie. My game was the only thing that suffered.”

Joe laughs. “I hear that. I didn't exactly thrive in the US and French last year without crowds.”

That was true, Nicky keeps an eye on the global rankings, in order to keep apprised of the competition. In the past year, Joe had slipped from his solid ranking in the mid-teens down to 40s. Not that he was watching for Joe specifically. He monitors all his competitors.

Then Joe brightened like he has an idea. “Hey, if you want, we're allowed to have a practice match? After my serve prac and you warm up? We've got all the requirements, I checked.”

“Of course,” Nicky says, “if we're allowed to share an elevator, we can share a court. I could use the practice returning.”

Joe looked at him like Nicky hung the Australian sun in the sky above them, and all but runs over to take up position at the baseline. Nicky took a moment to strip off his jacket and slip on his sweatbands and headband before he took up his racquet and goes to the other side.

Joe grabbed a bucket of bright yellow balls and placed it as his feet, and Nicky took up position across from him.

“I'm just gonna keep serving them,” Joe said, “you hit them how you like.”

The ones he could hit. Joe has a killer serve, and even knowing the angle where they're going to land has Nicky stretching to return them with equal force. When he tells Joe to mix up his placement, it's all Nicky can do to rise to the challenge.

After his serve was practiced, and Joe waves off Nile when she returned to the courts, they started up a simple 3 set practice match.

Joe decided to push to hit a few of Nicky's returns, some turning into a rally that had both of them panting and chuckling when Joe eventually netted it.

Joe almost ran into the empty stands around the practice court, unable to stop after his last sprint to reach the ball. He doubled over and laughed, leaning on the tip of his racquet against the ground. Nicky really, really likes the joyous sound of Joe's laughter.

They broke for stretching and electrolyte replenishment. Joe took off his trademark backwards cap and upended a bottle of water on it, then put it back on quickly so the cool water saturated his hair and dropped down his neck.

Nicky watched, bemused. “Do you usually go this hard during practice matches?”

“Only when I'm trying to impress,” Joe said with a cocky grin.

Warmth flooded Nicky's belly that had nothing to do with his training.

“You have nothing to prove to me, Joe. I remember our 5 set-er in the US Open. And the French.”

“Well,” Joe laughed, “you pushed us to five sets by giving me the game in the third.”

“And in the fourth you came to my defence,” Nicky said, then before he could think better of it, “my knight in shining armour.”

Joe looked down at himself. More like a backwards cap and pink shorts. He chuckled and rubbed a hand across his beard.

“Can I ask…” Nicky's started. “Why the colours?”

Joe's penchant for colourful clothes had been part of his brand for a while, and earned him a violation in England at the last Wimbledon when he turned up to the enforced "all white clothes" tournament with bright gold trim around the collars and cuffs of his brilliant white jacket, and socks with bold red stripes that were, shock horror, wider than one centimetre.

For the first time, Joe looked a little bashful. “Just part of the brand, you know?”

“The brand…” Nicky repeated, dumbly.

“You know, your reputation,” Joe shrugged, “the thing that gets you sponsorship deals.”

“I don't… get a lot of sponsorships,” Nicky admitted. “I'm here to play tennis…” He trailed off.

Joe looked at him sidelong, his hands pausing where they were restrapping his ankle. “You're telling me that you never make moves about your brand?”

“Not… on purpose.” Nicky hadn't made as much money on sponsorships as he could have, he admitted. It was never really one of his goals.

“Why?” He asked. “What reputation do I have?”

Joe answered without hesitation. “A strategist. And a sniper,” he said. “You don't give your plan away, and if you can get your feet under you, you never miss.” He seemed to catch himself with his serious tone and flipped to joking. “The work I had to do back at the French Open!” he exclaimed. “How do you keep your stats so low in unforced errors?”

Then it was Nicky's turn to be bashful. “Coach says I give up too easily.” Joe looked offended on Nicky's behalf, so he rushed to add, “Nothing major. Just, high level sporting psychology, right?”

Joe gave a playful groan. “Don't go opening that box.” And Nicky chuckled.

Joe leaned against the wire fencing and looked aside at Nicky, then he tested the waters.

“What about me?” Joe asked.

“What about you?”

“You got to hear your reputation. What's your read on my brand?”

“Colourful,” Nicky said dryly, then his expression softened. “Zealous. You commit to everything. You're over expressive, it gives away your strategy,” before Joe took it as a deep cut, Nicky edited his thoughts, “I mean, you have character. One that people recognise, and trust. You're not playing the mind-games, you're just playing tennis.” Nicky looked at the ground and scuffed his shoe against the blue rubber. “It's admirable. Also, you do something with art?”

That got a full belly laugh from Joe.

“Ah, you've heard about my kids programs. Don't worry,” he said, “I'm not going to invite you back to look at my etchings.”

Nicky, usually so reserved and restrained, let a little shrug escape. From the expression on Joe's face, he caught it, but continued his little speech explaining his brand.

“I'm a brown guy,” Joe said. “In one of the whitest sports there is. Where image is everything. I'm already visible and watched closely. The clothes just lean into that.”

Nicky tilted his head, considering. “You _want_ to be visible.”

Joe nodded. “What I do on and off the court matters. I know it looks like I just do whatever, but I do actually think about my actions. If someone tunes in to the match because they want to see my antics, and leaves with the knowledge that Muslim men can be skilled and happy with what they do, then that’s a benefit. If I win a match, I can do a shoutout to my art childhood art programs in the post-match interview, when all the rich folks are listening.” Then his expression gets soft, and fond. “And if I can reach just a handful of kids in North Africa, that they can play sports _and_ do art and have fun… that's more important than a trophy, I think.” He looked aside, squinting in the bright sun even though he had a perfectly good cap he could wear properly to keep the sun out of his eyes. “Yeah. Funding for arts and sports is already up 40% in Tunisia.”

Nicky was impressed, and humbled, and more than a little attracted.

A loud beep over the system speakers indicated change over in practice slots, and, regretfully, Joe and Nicky started packing up their gear. The both hoisted their packs full of racquets onto their backs.

“Hey,” Joe said, his voice a little strained, and bouncing on his feet a little. Displaying his nervousness so easily. “You’re fun to talk to. Can I get your number? For WhatsApp?”

Nicky tilted his head. “109.”

“109?” Joe repeated, confused.

Nicky gave a sly smile. “My room number.”

Joe's mouth hung open, as Nicky turned away, and he watched the little skip in Nicky's step as he walked the length of the court.

In the stands of the practice court, unnoticed by the two players, two people were watching. The unrivaled, undefeated 4 time Grand Slam mixed doubles winners, Scythia and Le Livre, shared a fistbump.

* * *

_Thursday the 18th of February, 2021_

_2020 Australian Open_

_The night before the Mens semi-finals_

_Australian Open_

WhatsApp messages:

Hey. No hard feelings for tomorrow? No matter what happens?

None at all. Ce n'est qu'un jeu.

Huh?

Something you said, in 2017. It stuck with me. Helped me calm down when I got frustrated after a loss.

Aww ❤️❤️❤️ Whatever happens, you deserve to go through to the grand finals.

So do you. We will make it good tennis either way, yeah? ❤️

Yeah ❤️

* * *

_Friday the 19th of February, 2021_

_2020 Australian Open_

_Mens semi-finals_

_Australian Open_

_Somewhere in NSW_

The score:

ITA Di Genova 7 6^4 7 6^4 

TUN al-Kaysani 5 7^7 5 7^7

  
  


“I love this commentator’s voice,” Steph said, munching on a block of cheese on a Jatz cracker. “So silky smooth.”

James Copley, former World No 1, spoke in between serves.

“As we move into the fourth set, Di Genova has a tentative grasp on the lead, but this is neck and neck. Now, this is incredible. This is honestly one of the most exhilarating matches I have ever seen.” Copley said. “Only 40% of their own serves have been won. You can see on the screen here-” a graphic displayed. “These players are far more likely to break each other, then break back, than they are to win their own serve. And with an ace player like al-Kaysani, he has truly met his match here.”

“I absolutely agree, James,” said Quynh. “This is one for the history books. A total of 20 duece points in the last two sets.”

“Pass the Tim Tams, would ya?” Steph made some grabby hands at the people on the other lounge in the break between sets.

The two players on screen had a close up, one after the other, as they guzzled water and mopped up sweat from a hard set and the warm Australian evening.

The last set pushed to tie break and al-Kaysani scraped through into the lead and won the set, pushing it to the fifth set. This was a long match.

“Look at those curls.” Anna said over her Bundaberg, as the player in question pulled off his cap and rubbed his towel over his hair.

“That must be so awful in this heat.” Jacob said. “He should just shave it off”

“No!” All three women yelled at him.

“Whoa, jeez, okay, I take it back.”

Di Genova re-tied his headband on screen, and they were treated to a close up of his face.

“Has he got a sexy little earring?” Steph asked.

“Why yes he does have a sexy little earring,” Anna said.

Mary munched on her personal plate of cheese and crackers. “How many times have they versed each other?” Not really a tennis fan, she was dragged out of her room by the promise of food and roommate fun times. “They look pretty mad.”

“Oh, Di Genova and al-Kaysani hate each other.” Anna said authoritatively.

“No, they’re just focused.” Jacob defended.

“They were rivals on the European circuit for the last few years.” Steph added. “I think they’ve played against each other a handful of times. Yusuf can ace like no one's business, but Nicolò has too good control of the baseline. If he makes the return, he has control of the court.”

“I understood none of that.” Mary said.

“I understand you're on a first name basis with them!” Anna teased Steph. She turned to Mary. “Team Tunisia hit fast, Team Italy run fast.”

Mary finger gunned. “Gotcha.”

A replay showed on screen, full body pans in slow motion comparing their serves.

“Oh, I get it.” Mary said. “Tunisia got the arms. Italy got the thighs. What’s the deal with the score again?”

“Tennis is supposed to be as even as possible, and to make sure, you have to win by 2 more than whatever the other person has. The problem here is that these players are well matched. This is the last set, and it’s anyone’s game.”

“Wait,” Mary said, a piece of cabanossi halfway to her mouth. “So it’s like the last 3 hours didn’t mean anything?”

Jacob barked a laugh. “Basically!”

On screen, Nicolò readjusted his headband and tucked an errant long strand back behind his ears as he moved into position to serve for the first game of the last set. His profile did look very pretty, glistening with sweat as he bounced the ball carefully then tossed it into the air.

He served, and the game was on again.

“Those thighs!” said Anna.

“Those arms!” said Steph.

“More wine?” asked Mary.

A 20 hit rally ended when Yusuf ran to a net approach, winding up to telegraph a strong hit that he changed at the last minute to do a little skip and a gentle underhand over the net.

For the first time, Nicolò let loose a smile as the ball double bounced on his side of the court and he lost the point.

Steph cheered. “And al-Kaysani breaks the serve!”

“Wait,” Mary said. “I thought you were going for di Genova?”

“I go for whoever means we’ll get more tennis,” Steph explained. “Now we’re in the last set, I really hope al-Kaysani wins. He deserves to get into the grand finals.”

They talk through the next few games, some about Yusuf's PR struggles with the "angry brown man" stereotype in a historically white sport, and the fact that Nicolò's face is impossible to read.

“Yusuf seems to know what he's thinking though.” Jacob notes.

“What do you mean?”

“He's playing a mind game. See? He gave him a look right there. He's trying to psych Nicolò out.”

Yusuf held his next serve, then so did Nicolò. Then Nicolò broke the next serve and Yusuf broke back quickly.

Too soon, they were at 6-6 and heading into another tiebreak for the match.

“You didn't tell me the game would be this long!” Mary complained, pouring herself another glass.

“Oh, 4 hours is nothing for these two.” Steph said. “At the US Open, before the tie break rule changed, they played for 5 and a half hours.”

There were some cute moments, even Mary had to admit. Nicolò won a point when the ball skimmed the net and he apologised by pressing his hand to his heart, then two fingers to his lips, like he was blowing a kiss. Yusuf ran up to the net desperately to get to a drop shot, then when Nicolò sent it back, flying over his head, he made it back to the baseline but hit the ball with the racquet between his legs.

“Take it to Deuce!” Anna shouted at the screen, and Yusuf did.

Yusuf sent a cocky little wink at his opponent, spinning the racquet around in his hands, ready for the serve, as the Chair announced Deuce.

Then: “Advantage di Genova,” but al-Kaysani won the point with a volley. Then it's “Advantage al-Kaysani,” but Di Genova slammed it with a backhand topspin that couldn't be caught.

The crowd built to a deafening roar.

“Match point!” Steph screamed. She slapped Mary's shoulder until she almost spilt her wine. “This is it!”

But Di Genova held! A few moments later, another match point the other direction, then another.

“Oh, I can't keep doing this!” Steph said, dragging her hands down her face and panting like she was the one doing a high level sport.

In the end, Yusuf had advantage and it was a twenty hit rally before Yusuf forced an error from Nicolò and won the match.

The crowd roared with cheers.

Yusuf collapsed to the ground, utterly exhausted, and Steph jumped to her feet cheering. On screen, Yusuf was laughing, his arm thrown over his eyes, legs splayed out.

The watch party crammed into the living room dissolved into chats about how that was one of the best matches they've ever seen, how the intended rivalry has been kicked up a notch, how Yusuf's coach looked like he needs a good nap, and how the woman in Nicolò's player box looks like an absolute badass.

No one was looking at the tv except Mary.

“Uh, guys?” she said. “Guys! Does that normally happen after a match?”

They all turned to look.

On screen, still on the court, with the net between them and covered in sweat, tennis world champions Yusuf and Nicolò ad their arms wrapped around each other, racquets long forgotten, and they were kissing.

**Author's Note:**

> Former Grand Slam champion and current coach, Andromache Scythia attends the Australian Open.  
>   
> If you're interested, here's the match I was watching when I thought "make it Joe and Nicky". Dominic Thiem vs Nick Kyrgios.  
>   
> 
> 
> Please consider leaving a review! I do love them so!


End file.
